in the multitude of universes
by I.A. Winters
Summary: Here, she is Hermione Granger. Here, he is Draco Malfoy. But there, they might not be. Dramione one-shots and drabbles.
1. Prelude

"So if there are multiple earths, then there are multiple versions of ourselves too?", Hermione asked with a doubtful expression on her face.

"Possibly," he nonchalantly replied. "But I like to think that we are not always Hermione Granger or Draco Malfoy."

Her eyes squinted. "How so?"

"For example, we call this world we are in earth one, but it could be any earth, really."

She nodded and waited for him to continue.

"And here, I'm Draco Malfoy and you are Hermione Granger. But in earth two, you could possibly be a girl named Sam or Belle or whatever. And me, Julian or Logan or some other weird name like Rufus."

"Like Draco is not weird?"

"Well, Hermione isn't common either." he quipped.

Hermione shrugged. "Touche."

"You know, for a Muggleborn, I'd honestly think that you might be more knowledgeable about muggle theories like the Multiverse."

"I consider myself a realist. And Science fiction never really boggled my mind."

It was odd considering magic is still much of a foreign concept in the muggle world and no more than a fantasy for them, but it's real. Yet a theory regarding parallel universes was absurd for Hermione Granger.

"But," she added, quite hesitantly. "If it were real, do you think we know each other in those other earths?"

Draco blinked.

"Maybe."

He heard her sigh.

"I'd rather not know you, to be honest. Than live in a world where we're enemies and—"

She stopped to look at him. The breeze blew her hair, and the moonlight gave the crown of her head a sort of halo. And she looked beautiful.

Yes.

He'd rather stay in this universe of theirs too.


	2. étoile polaire

Draco slumped down on the chaise lounge with an audible thump. He let his head relax on the arm before closing his eyes, contemplating what he should do next.

_Homework_, he thought. But the soft crackle of burning wood and the warmth radiating from the fireplace lulled him, inviting him to sleep.

Before his mind shut down, he sat upright and reached for his bag from the floor, grabbing the first book his hand touched.

It was Transfiguration and he remembers McGonagall giving them an essay to work on. He flipped through the pages, searching for the topic until he saw a small sheet of parchment in between pages 116 and 117.

His brows scrunched up in confusion, then picked it up.

_A tiny ship, adrift in the silent evening calm, carries a traveler, wounded all over, and has become his cradle._

There wasn't anything written on it saying who it came from. A clue being the scratchy penmanship, in which he was certain didn't belong to anyone he knew personally. And that it was a pale pink and that it was scented. _Apples_.

He folded it, then unfolded it again. Letting the words sink into his mind.

The door opened, revealing Hermione Granger. Her hair was bushier than normal and her face wore a scowl that would've made a first year scamper away from her. She stomped to the center of their shared common room before stripping off her robes and tossing it onto the coffee table. As she ungracefully sat down on the armchair, Draco asked, "What's got your wand in a knot?".

Hermione groaned in frustration. "It's not even dinner yet and I see a Gryffindor and a Slytherin snogging in the hallways _in broad daylight_!"

Draco tried not to grin. "Well, that's unfortunate."

"And you know what's funny?" He replied with a shrug. Hermione's eyes narrowed at him. "It's _Ginny_ and _Zabini_."

The shocking news made his eyes widen and his eyebrows ascend up to heaven. "Granger, are you _sure_ it's actually Blaise? Not Potter in polyjuice to relieve a kink that the she-Weasel has?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "First of all, Harry did not come back for eighth year. Second, he can't brew polyjuice _without_ strict supervision. And third, he and Ginny aren't together anymore."

Her eyes slithered on the paper he was holding. He swears he saw her look surprised for a second. "What is that?"

"Oh. Er, I don't know."

She reached out a hand toward him, palm up. He gave it to her and watched her read it. Then, she giggled.

"Looks like you have a secret admirer, Malfoy," she teased, handing back the note to him.

"Delightful," he replied with a deadpan expression.

"Oh, come off it," she frowned. "Be appreciative for once. Not everyone gets a love letter."

"It's not a love letter, Granger."

"It is, in its own little way."

"Oh, sure," Draco was still skeptical, "a wounded traveler on a ship is _so_ romantic."

She shook her head in disagreement. "She might be trying to tell a story, you know." He rose an eyebrow at that. "Anyway, meeting after dinner."

Hermione stood up and grabbed her robes from the table before sauntering upstairs to her own bedroom.

Up to this day, Draco still questioned McGonagall's intentions for making him Head Boy after being on the wrong side of the war for the most part.

"Everybody deserves a second chance, Mister Malfoy," was what McGonagall told him. "And the younger Slytherins need someone to look up to now that almost everyone assumes they might plot a mass genocide to wipe out muggleborns."

It was true. The prejudice against houses got worse after the war. The scathing glares and disapproving stares he received on a daily basis as proof. The whispers too. _Death Eater_.

He knew he deserved it. But Hermione didn't think so. She was surprisingly civil to him even after finding out they had to share dormitories as she was chosen for Head Girl. And after... everything he had done to her.

He mastered self-deprecation throughout the year, having not forgiven himself. He hated Voldemort even through death. He hated his father. He hated his Aunt Bella. But he hated himself the very most for all of the mistakes he had done.

Draco tried to push her away but the brunette did not relent. It was only after a month when Hermione had had enough of his behavior and refused to talk to him after. He felt guilty for realising how much he took her kindness for granted and made an effort to apologize but only ended up irritating her. It was on Christmas evening, three weeks of being ignored, when he bottled up his courage and set aside his pride as the both of them did not go home for the break, leaving them alone in their shared dormitory.

"I'm so sorry, Granger," his voice was soft as he spoke the words with his head down. "I just... I'm really sorry. For everything."

Their relationship changed dramatically after they opened up to each other. And he'd dare say that they're already friends.

Draco gazed down on the mysterious missive once more before folding it and tucking it in between the pages of his Transfiguration book.

• • •

He received another one three days later in between the same pages as before and he wondered how on earth did that person manage to do it. He made sure to keep an eye on his book, just in case.

_His sad, sleeping face betrays that he won't let anyone approach him anymore._

_Not knowing where he is now, he heads directly northward._

• • •

"Er... Malfoy," Hermione called out to him. He looked up from his copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ (in which Hermione insisted for him to read) and saw the Gryffindor standing on the doorway clutching a tiny sheet of parchment.

"You've got to be shitting me," he muttered and rose to his heels before walking to her and grabbing the paper.

"Found it on the floor," she said. "Maybe she pushed it under the door."

"Creepy."

Hermione snorted. "Anyway, what's it say?"

"Your hands, though they should be held, are empty," he read out loud, "as though from the very beginning, you were never capable of being loved."

Hermione perked up. "I knew it! She is telling a story."

"Of _who _exactly? And how are you sure it's a _she_?"

"_You _obviously. And you're seriously worried that it might be a bloke?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Never mind. It's your turn to choose the password, right?"

"Oh, yeah. It's _étoile polaire_."

He raised a pale brow. "North star?" She grinned sheepishly at him.

• • •

"Mister Malfoy, Miss Granger," McGonagall caught their attention as they stood up to leave for their next class. She still taught Transfiguration although she was the new Headmistress of Hogwarts.

"What is it, Headmistress?" Hermione asked.

"Come with me in my office for the moment," then she went out the door.

Hermione and Draco exchanged looks before following McGonagall. Once in her office and all of them had taken a seat, Draco noticed the pensive expression on their Headmistress as she turned to him.

"I received an owl from your father, Mister Malfoy," she started. "He's asked me for permission to let you stay at the manor for the meantime."

He was confused. "Why?"

McGonagall hesitated. "Your mother's ill, Mister Malfoy."

Draco tensed at the news. He heard Hermione gasp beside him and the room fell into a deafening silence.

He knew his mother wasn't in her best condition before he boarded the Hogwarts Express but the Healers had insisted that she was going to be fine in no time.

The three of them were still as a rock until Draco decided to speak. "When shall I leave?"

A pause. "Tonight."

He merely nodded before standing. "I'm going to prepare my luggage. Thank you for informing me, Headmistress."

McGonagall pursed her lips and hummed in understanding. Draco turned on his heels and went straight for the door. Maybe Hermione was about to follow him as he heard McGonagall stop her. "Miss Granger, there are still some things I have to discuss with you."

"A-alright professor." he heard her reply before he shut the door behind him.

• • •

"_Étoile polaire_," he whispered to the portrait that allowed him to enter the Head's dormitory. He just arrived at Hogwarts after staying at the manor for two weeks.

Narcissa Malfoy passed away a week after Draco had come home. They held a funeral for her the day after, where some of their relatives and family allies had come to visit, and surprisingly, Minerva McGonagall too. She had offered her condolences to him and Lucius, who was still at a state of shock and denial of his wife's death.

He caught sight of familiar, bushy curls behind the armchair. Hermione, alerted of his entrance, stood up and turned to him.

"...Malfoy."

He tried to smile. "Hey. Why are you still awake? It's late."

"Oh," she fidgeted with her fingers. "McGonagall told me you were coming back today. Thought I could wait."

He nodded. "Okay."

They stayed there for a while, not talking and just standing an arm's length away. It wasn't awkward at all, more comforting, really. They didn't need to utter a single word to know how the other was feeling.

But Draco felt her close the distance between them, her arms wrapping around his waist and head resting on his chest. The hold on his trunk loosened, making it fall to the floor.

Then he sobbed. He hadn't been able to grieve properly. He tried to act composed for his father, who barely had done anything. Draco was the one who arranged the funeral for Narcissa and made sure that everything went in order. He tried to be strong.

But now, he couldn't. So he cried and returned Hermione's embrace.

"S-she was _all_ I had, Hermione," he choked out. "She was all I had left to hold on to and now... she's _gone_ and she's _never_ coming back."

Hermione didn't reply and instead, rubbed soothing circles on his back.

"I'm all alone..."

Her hold on him tightened.

"I won't let you say that anymore."

• • •

The morning after, he received another missive from the anonymous writer. It was on the same spot as where Hermione found the last one before.

_Last night's rain, which has seeped into your ever-trembling heart, flows atop your scars, as though it were washing away your past._

He was starting to wonder who it was and why the person kept writing to him. He had yet to discover who the messages come from seeing as there was no pattern at all as to how he receives one.

He read the note again and tried to decipher the handwriting. And thinking about it now, it _oddly_ resembled Hermione's, except that this one was more aesthetically pleasing to look at compared to the Head Girl's that were all scrawny and quickly written.

But honestly, he didn't mind if it was her. She was a great friend and he really admired her. Like, _really_ admired her to the point he realised that he _fancied_ her and it terrified him in the beginning. Then he thought that it might just be a stupid crush that would falter away as time went on.

_It's not her_, he tried to convince himself.

• • •

He waited for the notes to come, in hopes of discovering who it really was, even waking up earlier than usual. But he only saw Hermione daintily sipping a cup of tea as she handed the note to him. "Saw it on the floor. Again."

_Your determination is only a bluff, fluttering atop the water, as though from the very beginning, it could have soared through the sky_, it said.

"Did you see who it was?" he asked.

"Nope," she said, her lips popping at the end. "It was already there when I went down."

"Who do you think it is?"

She shook her head. "I'm not sure. Maybe Luna?"

His brows knitted together. "Lovegood? No way."

"Parkinson?"

He scoffed. "As if."

"Hmmm. Then I don't know." She raised the cup to her lips and took a sip.

"Then it's you?"

She choked on her drink and coughed. After she calmed down, she glared at him. "No. It's not me. And it _wouldn't_ make sense at all. Like why would I need to give you secret notes and make a fuss about hiding when I can just talk to you directly?"

_Exactly_, he thought. "For fun?"

"_For fun_?" she repeated incredulously.

"I'm just bluffing, Granger."

She gave him a terribly inappropriate hand gesture and Draco only laughed.

• • •

"_Oof_!"

Draco bumped into Hermione when he turned the corridor as he walked for his next class. Her books fell off her hands, scattering on the floor.

"Shite, Granger, I'm sorry." he apologized.

"It's alright," she said.

There were paper and books everywhere and he helped picking up until he caught glimpse of a tiny sheet of parchment, the same one as the missives from his secret admirer.

He made a grab for it immediately and pocketed it in his robes.

After helping Hermione with her books, she left in a hurry.

His heart was thumping loudly from his chest. He retrieved the paper from his pockets and turned it to see if there was anything written on it.

And there was.

_Always wandering atop the waves, without a path to follow, ships move forward, though they're only adrift._

Then he took a quick sniff of the paper.

_Apples_.

It was her all along.

• • •

He was restless as he waited for her to arrive in their common room. He didn't know why he was nervous. He was just going to ask her, to confirm his suspicions especially with how heavy the evidence he had.

He jumped when the door opened and she walked in. She raised an eyebrow at his startled expression. "Something the matter?"

Draco walked to her and stood an arm away. Then he handed her the paper he had been holding onto.

Hermione seemed unsure as she grabbed it. "What's this?"

"Just read it."

She narrowed her eyes and nodded before reading. He watched her look confused to befuddled.

She raised her eyes to meet his. "Malfoy?"

"I know it's you. I _know_ it's you. Don't deny it to me anymore." he was shaking.

"I-I don't know what you mean."

"You _know exactly_ what I mean. I saw that when I helped you pick your stuff up when I bumped into you hours ago. But I want to know _why_? _Why_ did you do it?"

She gulped. "It was my way to show how much I cared for you. How much I—" she stopped and shook her head. "You've just been so lonely, you know. With all the prejudice, and your mother's death. I just wanted to make sure that you felt cared for. That someone cared for you truly.

"I was also afraid that you'd reject me if I showed an ounce of affection. So why not do it secretly, where I don't have to worry about you snapping at me and ignoring me and ha—"

"Why on _earth_ do you think I would ignore you if you told me you had a crush on me?" he cut her off.

"_Because_!" she exclaimed. "You're Draco Malfoy and I'm just... me."

"Idiot. You're a bloody idiot," he muttered.

"What?"

Draco grabbed her arms, pulling her into him and dipping his head to meet his mouth with hers. There was electricity and her lips felt so soft. Then he felt blissful when she kissed him back. Her arms snaked around his waist.

The kiss, that started hurried and frantic, slowed to a deeper and sweeter one, until they pulled away from each other.

Draco felt flushed and his heart was beating like he had run a mile. But he couldn't overcome the happiness he felt.

He ran his hands through her curls. "That was..."

"Amazing," she finished for him.

Then there was awkward silence as they held onto each other.

"So, do you still have messages for me?" he teased.

Hermione swatted his arm. Draco yelped before chuckling. "No. I don't have anymore."

"Because you don't need to."

She smiled wistfully. "Yeah..."

A pause. "I've written something for you too."

"Really?"

He nodded and pulled a parchment from his pockets and gave it to her.

Hermione smiled as she read.

"

_That's how we'll always live. But right now, we're together, though we don't know our destination._

_Always by my side, even when I can't take it anymore and burst into tears, you'll be there, faintly shining in the darkness._

_And since you've always done that for me, just for you, I'd like to become **Polaris**._

"

o O o

**Author's Note:**

Hello there!

I am _so _sorry it took so long for me to update. It's been really busy at school and I didn't have any time to write at all without worrying about our research.

But I started to have inspiration as I listened to **_Polaris _**by **_Aimer._** It's a japanese song. The notes Hermione sent to Draco are actually the translated lyrics of the song (not by me of course, I got it from lyrics translate dot com) and I felt it really fit this idea that I had.

This isn't Beta'ed (I haven't found a Beta yet) so I apologize for the errors you might've come across.

Hopefully, it doesn't take another three weeks before I get to update again.


	3. a thousand paper cranes

**Author's Note:**

If you find yourself uncomfortable reading content that implies self-harming, I advice you not to read this.

Please.

* * *

A dozen questions pop into my head as I watch Hermione Granger start folding her twenty-first origami paper crane. I glance at the (undeniably impressive) stack of the finished product then back at her.

I think of something to say, but I stop myself, knowing how it's not the time to make an insensitive joke about her strange obsession with origami.

So I comment about her hair instead.

"Maybe you can make an origami hair brush, too. Might be actually useful for you."

She gives me a glare I am all too familiar with (having been the receiving end of it for a decade of my life starting when I was seven) that I counter of my own.

"Instead of being utterly useless, why don't you help me Draco?" she retorts.

"But I don't kno—"

"Then shut up," and I do. But no more than a minute later, I speak again.

"How do you do it then?"

Her hands stop moving and she looks at me with a twinkle in her eye, intrigued for having an opportunity to educate another person.

She finishes what she's currently working on before taking a new square of paper. She hands one to me.

"So first," she starts, "you have to fold it in half..."

* * *

I ask her why she's making a lot. I have an inkling as to why. But I want her answer.

Origami crane number 67 is set aside. I watch her fingers tap on the table. One, two, three, four, five. Her lips purse. Her eyes meet mine.

"Do you know the legend?"

Yes. "No."

"_Senbazuru_?" she tries again.

I feign ignorance. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"Well, the legend says that if you fold a thousand origami cranes, whatever you wish for will come true."

"What's your wish then?"

She's silent for a moment. Now I regret asking. She's going to shut me out. Or run away. Or maybe both.

I open my mouth—

"It's a secret," then she smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes.

She starts doing another one.

I notice cuts on her arm. Fresh and old.

I want to ask about it. But I keep my mouth shut.

* * *

For the next few weeks, we would meet in the same café in the town square every day, folding paper cranes.

I'm getting sick of it, honestly. But I continue doing it for her. Even if this will be the only activity we do for the rest of our summer. Our lives.

Paper crane number 670 is done. She starts on 671. My hands are tired.

I crack my knuckles and cross my arms.

I stare at her delicate hands doing all the work. Then at her wrists. Even wearing a long-sleeved shirt, I can still see them.

I frown.

"Granger."

Her eyes slither to mine, raising an inquisitive brow.

"What are you doing?"

It's a simple question, but enough to catch her off guard.

"What—"

"Your arm."

Her eyes widen. Her breath hitches. But only for a moment.

She crumples the paper and puts everything we made in her tote bag. Then she's up and walking out of the café.

I chase after her.

The sun's setting down. And she's walking fast. But my strides are longer.

I stop in front of her and hold her shoulders. She thinks her shoes are interesting. I tell her to look at me. She doesn't.

My hand lifts her chin up. Her rosy cheeks are tear-stained. But her eyes are closed.

For some reason, my chest constricts.

Again, I tell her to look at me. Gently, this time. But she still won't.

What I do next is indeed pretty bold for a person like me. But I think it doesn't matter. I've loved her for years.

My eyes flutter shut when I feel her lips pillow against mine. I pull away after ten seconds. Maybe twenty.

She's surprised. Good.

"I won't force you to tell me what's going on. But I want you to stop doing," I hold her wrist between us, "this."

"I'm sorry," she chokes out. And she's crying again.

I wrap my arms around her.

That's what I do for the rest of our summer.

And maybe a few kisses here and there.

She still won't talk. But it's okay. She needs more time. And I love her.

At the start of the term, I feel light. I wait for her to arrive in our homeroom. But she doesn't. Nor the next day. Nor the day after that.

I arrive home to see her father talking to my mum. He looks horrible. Like he hasn't been having enough sleep.

When he sees me, he walks up to me with a sad smile before handing a box.

I look inside.

A thousand paper cranes.


	4. smearing cream on scones

**Prompt: Task #2 - Napkin on your lap: **Write about having a meal with someone.

* * *

Dates were usually done on an evening in a restaurant, eating impeccable courses while being surrounded by posh people dressed in their finest clothes.

But thinking about it, her current situation was no different, really. It's just that it was an afternoon, and she was sitting with her boyfriend's parents in one of the many rooms at Malfoy Manor, and her date was nowhere to be found.

If it even was to be considered a date in the first place.

The moment Draco received the owl from Robards requesting for his presence in the Ministry (for what, she had no idea) and had to leave, Hermione felt utterly terrified.

Perhaps she was being dramatic (her boyfriend of one year, five months, and four days, really was rubbing off on her). But she couldn't help but shiver at the sight of Lucius Malfoy glaring at her from across the table.

It was nice.

She focused on the pretty tea sandwiches, pastries, and cookies the elves served on the table. And the chamomile tea she had yet to taste.

She wasn't worried about her table manners. It was the last thing for her to even find horrifying. Her family was not old-money rich. Nor were they conservative snobs. But they did teach her basic etiquette.

But her shaky hands were kind of a problem. And so, she decided to starve herself to save her from embarrassment.

"Hermione, dear," Narcissa Malfoy drawled, "are you not hungry?"

She met her eyes, relaxing quite a bit from the warm aura the Malfoy matriarch exuded. At least she was inviting.

"I – err, not really."

"Is that so? But please, help yourself with the scones. Libby just baked them."

She could only nod stupidly.

Hermione silently chastised herself for losing her usual finesse. She wasn't scared of Lucius. But she feared the butter knife he was holding. He looked ready to pummel and stab her to death.

No. She need only to calm down.

She was a bloody Gryffindor, for God's sake.

She had a respectable career as a Healer at St. Mungo's. She had great friends. A gorgeous, intelligent (and insufferable) boyfriend.

And she was Hermione Jean Granger.

A prejudiced aristocrat was nothing to be feared of.

She took a deep breath and reached for a scone. Then the jam, smothering an amount enough to cover the top. And finally, the clotted cream.

A scoff stopped her from smearing the cream on the baked good.

"Not only is your blood status unfortunate, but you're also painfully ignorant."

She felt her eye twitch. "I beg your pardon?"

"Surely you know that the cream always comes first, then jam second."

Oh, she was not having this debate.

She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but stopped herself, even if she so wanted to spite her boyfriend's father.

"And I believe that we are entitled to our own preferences," she challenged, sending him a glare of her own.

Lucius Malfoy's nose flared. "The audacity–"

"Husband, I'm asking you to _please_ shut up," Narcissa sighed.

"But the mudblood-"

It amused Hermione to no end seeing Narcissa smack Lucius on the head with her hand, silencing his foolish tirade.

She hid her smile from behind her cup.


End file.
